The woman is head and shoulders shorter than me, her long black hair lit up by the headlights as she steps out of the car. I can’t make out her expression but I suspect it is one of caution, mistrust. She doesn’t know who I am.

“Can I help you?” she asks in perfect English. She must recognise me as a foreigner.

“I’m looking for someone,” I answer.

She looks at me for a long time before she finally reaches into the car and switches off the ignition. She motions for me to follow her inside.

I have already been through the farmhouse, sweeping the area for clues and, more importantly, traps. My father’s paranoia is not entirely unfounded. She leads me into the kitchen and takes a seat at the table. I sit opposite her, wondering what has made her invite me into her home. Perhaps she knows something.

“You are looking for your father.” It is a statement not a question.

I nod.

“I may be able to help you. But I will need something from you in return.”